


personal space

by thepeopletoomustrise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M, but he knows he wants Grantaire, in which Enjolras can't Untangle his feelings, uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:03:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeopletoomustrise/pseuds/thepeopletoomustrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras knows what he wants: Grantaire. And he intends to make himself known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	personal space

**Author's Note:**

> for the following prompt:  
> "Enjolras knows what he wants: Grantaire.
> 
> Unfortunately, when he confesses, Grantaire doesn't believe him (self-esteem/trust issues? up to author) and takes to avoiding Enjolras whenever they're in the vicinity of the other.
> 
> Enjolras knows it's only because Grantaire won't let himself want him, but he won't take no for an answer so he begins aggressively seducing Grantaire at every opportunity. Crowding him against walls/doors/tables, eliminating all personal space, constantly touching and kissing him until Grantaire finally relents."
> 
> \-- 
> 
> (modern au) 
> 
> * line with asterisk is a reference to Moulin Rouge *

**December 1 st**

_“This is a joke. You think this is fucking hilarious, to mess with a drunk like this. To you, I am nothing but a sad, pitiful drunkard, and will be nothing more. You think I’d believe anything, don’t you? or that my brain cells have been fried and sizzled by the alcohol that presumably runs through my veins?”_

_“Grantaire—!”_

_“Save it. I’m done. Dammit, Enjolras. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” *_

 

**December 7 th**

 

Enjolras will not take no as an answer. (Or, was that phrased incorrectly?) Precisely, he will not let Grantaire shove him away with a steady refusal to listen to the truth – to Enjolras’ truth – without taking the confession as serious as Enjolras had. He freaking confessed his _love_ (well, he had not explicitly uttered the word love, but he assumes Grantaire understands) to R who, for the record, has apparently been venerating him for years.

 

And now that he’s finally gotten off of his high freaking horse, Grantaire is refusing to take _yes_ as an answer. Great.

 

His immediate reaction had been to assume he’d made a mistake somewhere along the way to morph Grantaire’s adoration to resentment, but after careful consideration (and a lecture from Combeferre) he concluded that maybe there was no fault to be had, regarding either of them.

 

_“Perhaps he cannot bring himself to accept your confession as tangible and real,” Combeferre says, and he adjusts his glasses in the way he always does when thinking hard, “This is sure to come as a shock to him. He needs time.”_

 

Well, it’s been a week since the fight and Enjolras, although no expert on relationships, is sure this constitutes as a decent amount of ‘time.’ In the aforementioned period of time Grantaire has made no strides towards acceptance, or even acknowledgment of Enjolras’ major declaration. In fact, he’s downright avoided him.

 

Time his ass. He knows what he wants, and its Grantaire. And no, he’s _not fucking joking._

So when he walks into the Musain this evening, he tosses his winter coat in the general direction of the coat hanger and his focus shifts directly to Grantaire. He will get an answer out of him, he will.

 

Languidly, he saunters over towards where Grantaire is leaning over the table of refreshments and chatting half-heartedly with Courfeyrac. Combeferre is in charge of drinks this week, which explains the quality variety of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages that pepper across the worn wood table. Courfeyrac waves flippantly at Enjolras and, of course, Grantaire makes no move to turn around or recognize his existence. But he will make his existence well-fucking-known.

 

He approaches the table and finally says hello, nodding to Courfeyrac and Grantaire and any others nearby, “What a brisk night; have we any warm refreshments?” and Jehan points him in the direction of a few freshly brewed cups of steaming coffee, conveniently across the table. “Perfect,” he says, and flashes a smile. He’s standing directly behind Grantaire.

 

Now is his chance.

 

Stretching, he leans over in the direction of the coffee mugs, and in the process his arms wrap around Grantaire in an almost-hug. He feels the warmth of the other man’s skin beneath his thin sweatshirt and breathes in the musky scent of smoke and booze; it’s obvious he’s taken the path of most difficulty, so he mutters a breathy “Sorry, Grantaire, I’m in your way,” that isn’t apologetic in the slightest. Enjolras is careful to drag his arms against Grantaire’s biceps as he pulls back with a cup of coffee.

 

For a moment he swears he hears Grantaire’s breath hitch in his throat.

 

**_December 14 th_ **

****

Grantaire is leaving the Musain after a meeting that, as always, had come to a close in a heated argument between Marius and Enjolras. Now everyone is sitting back with drunken smiles slapped stupidly on their faces; most likely as the holiday season is fast approaching and for those of them – like him – who remain alone, depression drapes itself like a wet blanket and alcohol seems logical.

 

He will not think of that asshole Enjolras. No, he certainly will not.

 

Stumbling, he makes his way to the makeshift coat hook in the corner adjacent to the door and begins to rummage through the pile of winter clothes in search of his raggedy ass green coat. He’s sure it’s been pushed to the bottom.

 

As he’s busy entangling his hands within loose coat arms, he feels the heat of another person behind him – approaching fast, might he add – and he spins around in defense. _I swear, if it’s Bahorel trying to start another damn fight…_

It’s not Bahorel. It’s Enjolras. And the blonde stares him directly in the eye while he says, “I must get my coat.”

 

He doesn’t reply, but he knows Enjolras’ red coat is hung at the top of the large stack. He saw it (not like he was looking) earlier; like a normal human would, he moves to step out of the way, but he’s cornered.

 

“May I help you?” he snaps, and they’re some of the few words he’d spoken since The Confession. His voice is thick with venom.

 

Enjolras licks his thick, red lips and cocks his head to the side. His hands, which were previously resting on his hips, lift themselves towards the coat hanger behind Grantaire, “I said,” he voice is careful and calm, “I need my coat.” In his effort to reach up and behind the drunkard, their bodies go flush.

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He’s too focused on feeling their bodies meld, on the feeling of their scents lingering and chasing and mixing, on the heat that radiates so hotly from Enjolras’ chest, on the sound of the blonde man’s steady breaths. For a split second their bodies are pressed together completely, but Enjolras keeps to his word and pulls away with coat in hand.

 

“Thanks,” he says, and Grantaire can see a smirk play on the corner of his lips.

 

Stupid, stupid man.

 

**_December 17 th_ **

****

Jehan insists they have a Christmas cookie making party. So they do. It’s a snowy evening, and Les Amis stand in Jehan’s cramped kitchen (well, all except Bossuet, who insists on staying away from stoves as a general rule of thumb) – everyone is doing something to help in this cookie making process.

 

Grantaire isn’t exactly sure why he agreed to be here. Oh, wait, he didn’t; Jehan is his freaking roommate (and that is the story of why Enjolras is in his apartment).

 

“Stop it!” Marius cries, and it’s clear that Courfeyrac is flinging flour quite aggressively in his direction, “Stop that right now! Courfeyrac!”

 

Joly laughs nervously and agrees with Marius, but soon the majority of them are involved in a war of flour; Courfeyrac is in a mad rampage towards his friend, Jehan is dusting flour in Bahorel’s hair, who is attempting to dump the bag of flour on Enjolras’ head.  Grantaire sits at the counter and observes the scene, occasionally joining in on the assault towards Marius because, well, he’s Marius.

 

After a few minutes of this stupid game, everyone winds down, laughing and passing around a damp towel Joly had fetched while they flung food items at each other. Marius looks near tears, but laughs anyway, which he does quite often.

 

“Grantaire,” says Jehan, gesturing towards the man’s face, “You have flour on your cheek!” he chuckles.

 

He replies “Of course I do,” and struggles to wipe it off (“No, other cheek!... Okay, a little up… No, no, not there…”).

 

And then, someone interrupts his struggle with “Here, I’ll get it.”

 

It’s Enjolras.

 

Soon, he’s next to Grantaire, facing the man nearly nose to nose. Grantaire is frozen when Enjolras brings a hand up to his cheek and brushes the alleged flour from his left cheek with the pad of his thumb; heat follows the swipe of his finger and Grantaire feels goose bumps race themselves down his body. Enjolras’ hand lingers longer than it needs to, and they look at each other, eyes connecting in a gaze that cannot be broken.

 

“There,” Enjolras says, and he breaks away to see his group of friends silent and agog.

 

**_December 21 st_ **

****

Enjolras bumps into him seven times between the hours of eight and nine pm.

 

**_December 23 rd_ **

****

Many of Les Amis head home for the holidays, and the ones who remain include Grantaire, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Marius, and Bahorel. Enjolras and Marius don’t go home due to family disagreements; Courfeyrac doesn’t because he’s Courfeyrac (and him and Marius have been dating long enough for him to be content staying with his boyfriend for the holidays); Bahorel’s family lives locally.

 

Enjolras is at a bar with Courfeyrac – not necessarily because he likes to find himself at bars, but because Courfeyrac showed up at his apartment and nearly dragged him out the door – when he spots Grantaire and Bahorel across the way. He knows this bar, the Rue, is the most common among his friends who are quite fond of alcohol, but he was not expecting the both of them to be out at the same time.

 

Bahorel is sitting next to a pretty brunette woman and is looking with fascination at her wristwatch. Next to him, R sits beside an empty seat, stirring whatever drink he has and looking evidently bored. Neither notice Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

 

Instead of doing the logical thing and telling Courfeyrac about this as to connect all of his friends, Enjolras mutters to his friend that he’ll be right back. Courfeyrac waves him away as he heads off towards the karaoke area full of people drunk off the holidays.

 

Carefully Enjolras slides from his barstool and makes his way around the bar, occasionally having to shrug off a few unstable people and push against many Public Displays of Affection. There are too many people for his comfort, and he’s positive he can feel others’ sweat drip against his shoulders. Even so, his mission is one of determination, and he eventually finds himself in the empty barstool next to Grantaire.

 

Grantaire turns to probably snap at him, but Enjolras beats him to the punch; “You’re friendly with alcohol; care to buy me a drink?” and before R has a chance to throw in a retort, Enjolras pulls a five-dollar bill and slips it slowly into the pocket on the breast of Grantaire’s shirt. He presses his hand against the line of his friend’s chest, taking a moment to trace his fingers along the seams of his button-down shirt, to feel the fabric and to outline the faint divots his muscles have created.

 

Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s heartbeat flutter under his palm, and for a few quiet moments, they sit like that. The rest of the bar dissolves, and it’s just them, isolated within each other.

 

Grantaire pulls away suddenly, throws the money at his feet, and storms out of the bar.

 

**_December 24 th_ **

****

The five leftover Amis spend Christmas Eve at Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment. They exchange gifts, play video games, fail to decently cook (and end up ordering pizza), and just enjoy each other’s company, as they have done in years prior.

 

It’s when Enjolras, sitting next to Grantaire as they eat their pizza on the living room floor, rests his hand on Grantaire’s thigh that things explode. Grantaire stands up so abruptly it’s as if the motion is electricity setting off a spark. All of their friends look up at him, and his face is bright red, hands in fists. His voice is loud and angry when he shouts, “Fuck you!” at Enjolras, and before a reply can be heard, he storms away.

 

His friends try to reason with him as he angrily grabs his coat, but to no avail. The door is slamming moments later, and they all turn to Enjolras with an assortment of gasps.

 

He apologizes briefly; suddenly he’s up, running after the slammed door and not bothering to grab a coat. Enjolras jabs his feet into Courfeyrac’s shoes and, before he realizes it, is chasing Grantaire down the stairwell (he can’t help to momentarily scold himself for acting like a teenage boy).

 

“Grantaire, wait!”

 

In fact, Enjolras keeps chasing him until they reach the side of the apartment building outside. Frantic and not so clear-headed, Enjolras firmly grabs the arm of the tattered green coat; his grip is relentless to the tugging that follows, and finally Grantaire turns around and stares at him with fiery eyes, “What the hell do you want from me?!”

 

Enjolras, taking his friend in both arms, backs him into the brick wall behind them and presses his lips against Grantaire’s. The aforementioned spark blooms instantly to a fire.

 

Their breaths deepen and soon they grab each other’s lips in a hungry frenzy; Bodies flush, heartbeats racing, hands searching. Enjolras, enveloped in R’s musky scent, is grabbing at any part of him he can possibly cling to, and Grantaire is arching towards Enjolras’ body; he loses himself in Enjolras’ mouth. The world dissolves into a messy pastel behind them, and the push and pull and sharing of breaths melts into a cloud of passion.

 

Their lips don’t leave each other unless to nip at jawbones or earlobes or chins, and they hold onto each other with close determination, as if trying to keep the kiss between them -- with no room to escape. Grantaire’s heart lurches in his throat to cut off his breath when Enjolras cups his face in his hands and traces his jawbone with shaking thumbs; he can still taste his tongue on his lips.

 

Their foreheads press together then, a warm contrast to the cold air around them, and Enjolras is certain he’s made their bodies completely flush. He reaches to touch a strand of Grantaire’s curly raven hair and swallows his nerves; “Don’t you see?” he says, and his voice quiets.

 

“Shit,” is Grantaire’s reply, and his hands are grabbing Enjolras’ shoulders, “I’m fucking in love with you, Enjolras,” and they kiss again. Enjolras isn’t exactly sure what’s happening because Enjolras always has a _plan_ and he hasn’t _planned for this yet._ “I’ve been in love with you for years and you’ve been _fucking_ blind and I’ve given up hope because that’s what I _do_ , and I never thought you’d…” his voice breaks and his eyes stare at the ground. Enjolras wonders if they hold tears.

 

“I do,” he replies, and his tone is soft, gentle; he runs a thumb across Grantaire’s cheek. “I have a lot of… feelings, about you. About us.”

 

Grantaire pulls him against him, hard, though just into a hug; into the kind of hug where they hold each other so desperately, so hungry for touch, so happy to immerse themselves in each other’s arms. Enjolras now notices that they’re both shaking. When they pull away, Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a moment before starting to laugh; “’Feelings?’” he coughs, and Enjolras can feel his body vibrate as his laugh comes out fuller and richer than before.

 

He feels his face scorch red, “Don’t laugh at me. God, Grantaire,” but inside his emotions have twisted into a messy pretzel of overwhelming confusion.

 

“I’m not. Well, I am. I’m sorry,” he grins and gives Enjolras’ forearm a squeeze, but when he looks at Enjolras’ face, he frowns; “You look like you’re going to explode. Are you okay?”

 

“I have so many _feelings_ about you,” the words seep through a flustered Enjolras’ teeth and he shakes his head, “and I’m not exactly sure what to do. They’re burning a fire in my chest. I’m not sure this is healthy.”

 

“You sound like Joly,” replies Grantaire, “And if you were that concerned about your health, you wouldn’t have been breathing all over me during cold season. Have you not heard of personal space?” He’s grinning.

 

“I…” he momentarily racks his brain for information he’d researched in magazines and movies prior to this romantic venture, “I was trying to _woo_ you.”

 

Grantaire snorts, “Your basic existence has wooed me for four and a half years.”

 

He laughs sheepishly and finds himself reaching for Grantaire once again, and they stand like that for a while, letting the snow fall on clashing light and dark hair. Enjolras is mumbling muffled things into Grantaire’s coat and he doesn’t bother trying to decode them; instead he stands with hands in wavy blonde hair, watching the snow fall and existing as one with the love of his life.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to dedicate this little friend to tumblr user besanii who works so hard on the exR fic rec tumblr. It does not go unnoticed!


End file.
